DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock. Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original source material is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Authors note: This is a multi-chapter fic that follows the aftermath of Sherlock's drug overdose in 'The Abominable Bride'. This story is a sequel to 'One More Miracle' but can be read separately and coherently without you reading the one-shot that inspired this idea (although you are welcome to).
Any feedback is appreciated.
Sherlock was wedged in between John and Mary, a strategy that was John's idea, as it would allow both of them to keep an eye on the detective.
The man that sat between them had a mournful, sour expression plastered on his face. He was not happy to be under such scrutiny.
He did not have a choice in the matter.
An hour ago Sherlock Holmes had almost died.
An hour ago London's only consulting detective had overdosed.
He was in no fit state to make decisions about seating arrangements in the back of the car. In fact, John would go as far as saying, Sherlock Holmes was in no fit state to make any decisions at all.
John knew Sherlock could be many things, but reckless with his own life? It scared him, thinking about it. His old flatmate had sunk into a dark place, and somewhere between the wedding and the shooting, John had missed all the signs.
He should have known that Sherlock, of all people, had suicidal tendencies. The man was a genius, his mind racing, as the rest of the world slogged behind at snail pace. All those thoughts, not being able to switch off, the ability to perceive the world in such painful clarity, was enough to drive anyone insane.
"How long?" John asked as he leaned in with a torch to inspect Sherlock's hazy, unfocussed eyes. His tone was as level as he could manage, but it still contained an urgency that lifted Sherlock from out of his drugged thoughts.
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock slid down in the car seat so that half of his body was pointed in an awkward angle, one of his knees resting on Mary's lap,his chin falling onto John's shoulder. He had a smile on his face,and was giddy with glee. John felt a twinge of anger stir in his gut in response.
Not this time, Sherlock, you don't get to do this.
Mary was the one who stopped John from saying anything he'd regret later. She held up a hand to cut off the words he wanted to berate Sherlock with.
"He means the drugs, Sherlock." Her voice was gentle and she dared to run a hand through Sherlock's sweat coated curls. Normally, the man could not abide to be touched, but with Mary it seemed different.
That shouldn't have stirred a pit of jealousy inside John, but it did.
The nauseating feeling clenched at his gut.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were my childminders. Do I have to tell you everything?" Sherlock snarked, scrunching up his nose petulantly.
John wanted to say: You wouldn't need childminders if you didn't act like such a child all the time.
Out loud he said,"You don't have to tell us anything. Take drugs. End up in the back alley somewhere whilst you overdose. See if I care." He didn't mean it, of course, but his patience was wearing thin, and it had been a very long day, full of both emotional and physical battles.
"Caring is not an advantage, John. You should know that better than most."
"Me?"
"You cared for me once, then I betrayed you with my fraudulent death. You cared for Mary, and she turned out to me a traitorous assassin, who would stop at nothing to keep you to herself."
"It's not as simple as that though, is it? I've forgiven you for the fall."
"And Mary?"
"I'm working on forgiving her." John looked up at his wife with an apologetic look in his eyes. "In all fairness, you did shoot him."
"I know," Mary's lips pursed together. "I thought that he would…"
"Out you?" Sherlock bit out. "I was perfectly capable of that after you put a bullet in me, but I would not have prevented you from being with John."
"Why are you being so kind Sherlock?" Mary implored the detective with her bright, quizzical eyes. Her hands stilled in his curls, and the lack of attention caused Sherlock to shift in annoyance, his own eyes sliding upwards to greet her.
"I wasn't aware that I was being kind, as you so put it, but if you must know…I do not blame you for shooting me. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary."
Unspoken, Sherlock thought, In the name of John's happiness and welfare, sacrifices are necessity.
"Hmm." Mary hummed in response. "Think you can move a little? I'm not sure the baby likes having a knee jabbing into its home."
Mary had to shift at that point because Sherlock's knee was beginning to dig into her stomach. The position would have been uncomfortable, even if it weren't for the fact she was six months pregnant with John's child.
Sherlock grunted, and looking directly at Mary with his evaluating eyes, said "We are the same, you and I." We would do anything for John Watson, wouldn't we?
Mary didn't reply verbally, but nodded, as though she understood what Sherlock was trying to convey. She helped him into a better position that brought relief to all three of the trio, and let out a sigh when the pressure was alleviated from her baby bump.
Mary had always surprised John when it came to Sherlock, from the very first time they had met. The changing relationship between his wife and best friend was enough to give him whiplash.
She'd liked him, had got on with him like a house on fire, had encouraged him and John to go on cases, but then the shooting had happened…
That night he'd almost lost them both.
Never again.
He'd keep both of them safe.
He'd protect them.
Because there was no denying the fact that he loved them both, and he would do anything to ensure that they were out of harms way. No matter what it cost himself.
He had to protect Mary from her past.
And Sherlock? Well, given that he had overdosed, it was quite obvious what John had to protect him from.
He glanced over to the two of them and his lips twitched into a semblance of a smile,as he watched the detective curl up against Mary. There was something about the foetus position he'd taken up that reminded John of a child.
So innocent. So perfectly open, and vulnerable. The man's usual harsh contours seemed to soften, his eyes flickering shut, as he teetered on the edge of sleep.
Mary was treating Sherlock like he was the most precious and fragile thing in the world, speaking to him softly, stroking his curls. The sight was very motherly, and a lot like looking into a looking glass that could tell the future. John had no doubts that Mary would be a good mother. She had a way of calming even the stormiest of souls.
And Sherlock's soul was definitely stormy.
Behind closed eyelids, John pictured torrential rain, the crash of thunder, the onslaught of hail, a bellowing wind that caused damage to everything in his path. That was Sherlock. A storm just waiting to happen, destroying both himself and those who were forced to watch his destruction.
"Where are we going?" Sherlock murmured into Mary's red jacket, sleep thick in his voice.
Indeed, it was a thought that had crossed John's mind. It was Mycroft's driver - Jeeves - Jason? - He couldn't remember the man's name- driving them. He had presumed that they were being sent back to 221B to settle Sherlock back into his home, but as he glanced outside he didn't recognise any of the streets or buildings that were passing by.
He fingered his mobile phone in his jeans pocket, and searched for Mycroft's number. He tapped furiously at his phones screen.
What wild goose chase are you sending him on now? JW.
This was so typical of Mycroft, sending his brother on a mission, or a case, only an hour after he'd overdosed.
No matter what the Elder Holmes had said on the plane, John was still bitter about Mycroft sending his brother off to die in six months time.
There was no possible way that Mycroft could be right every time.
No possible way that Mycroft knew Sherlock would have survived it.
He continued to type angrily.
He should be at home. That's the best place for him now. JW.
A moment later his phone buzzed.
No. - MH.
John blinked. Typed another message. For once in his life it would be nice if the Holmes brothers could try and be a little less cryptic.
No? If not 221B, where? JW.
The reply made John feel sick to his stomach.
Rehab. MH.